Outsider
by Syropeify
Summary: BxV set around Androids. An interpretation on the desperation and the loneliness that has led to their coupling. Rated M for future chapters. Book cover by Lolikata. Rating may change.
1. Solitude

_**Author's Note: **__Just playing around with thoughts and ideas. I'm focusing more on character development than plot. Reviews & Constructive Criticism Welcome, Flames Not. I write to get it out of my system, I hope you enjoy. This is just an interpretation; nothing is really right or wrong in the fanfiction world _

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything.

**Solitude**

Bulma Briefs is an inherently lonely girl. Unable to relate to the majority of her peers beyond a superficial level, she often feels an uneasy solitude within her life. Desperate attempts for popularity and plays on vanity and selfishness to hide her rather insecure self-doubt. Her indiscernible lack of confidence when it comes to the social world she inhabits. A world that during her youth, did not appreciate the intellect of the female persuasion. A world that she still fights to gain recognition of her accomplishments, overshadowed by the malocchio that plagues intellectuals. A world that designates her the subtle secondary status she faces as the unfortunate result of her gender.

But Bulma is a smart woman, a woman who can understand her social surroundings, sit outside and look in. Always looking in. From a young age she realised she was different, and strived to become the same. But it often left her feeling empty and frustrated. So she learned by replicating that which was around her, an extroverted persona, a façade. A way to get by, get through life. Nonetheless, she is acutely aware of her loneliness, her eclectic group of friends that often feel no more than circumstance, herself only included within the lives of others when something of her is needed. She is mindful of her difference and the manner in which she needs to become the same.

* * *

She stands by the window, watching the dark brooding clouds looming over the property, threatening to flood their abode. Small drops of rain splash against the window, trees beginning to sway in the increasing violent wind. A storm is coming, this she knows.

She is only half listening to the rambles of her mother, her focus on the world outside the glass. Bunny strolls about the room, tidying up odds and ends, the soprano tones of her voice ringing through the space. A unique trait of her mother, the ability to fill any room with the melodic quality of her voice, no matter how dampened the noise is with fabric and carpets. One of many of her strange and wonderful gifts that she brings to the eccentric family.

Bulma is spooked by the sudden placement of her mother's hand on her shoulder. "You'll take good care of him while we're away?" She nods her head, turning around to give her mother a warm embrace.

While she sometimes feels estranged from her mother with the stark differences in their personality, she does adore her. A breathe of fresh air and sunshine, her mother is within the dark, dank world of research and science, confined to attending to the needs of two like-minded, focused individuals of herself and her father. Bulma admires her mother, her ability to put up with the mood swings, the stress and the pressure that both her and her father continually feel pushing hard down onto their shoulders. Her warmth and kindness, her soothing ability to make one feel better, to feel human in their increasingly artificial and inhumane world. Deep inside she hopes that she has gained some of those qualities from her mother, that she is not completely like her father.

"A lonely man indeed….Just like you" her mother muses over her shoulder before letting go of their embrace, breaking Bulma out from her own silent reverie. Her mother leaves then with a smile and a skip before Bulma can respond. Another gift of her mother's, the ability to read people, to see the larger picture that often her and her father miss in their search for the details. An uncanny ability to unpack the individual in front of her. Her mother is a beautiful creature, she concludes. A magnificent being whose penchant for naivety could in fact, be inherent and misunderstood wisdom. She ponders the meaning behind her mother's phrase, what she is seeing that she cannot.

Bulma turns her attention back to the window, a frown etched onto her face as she observes the realm beyond the transparent wall, her focus intent on the figure she cannot see, hidden within the walls of his own prison. The enigma of a man that gives her a strange feeling, constricting within her chest. As if he is part of something more within her life beyond his role as a house guest. As though he is a puzzle that is waiting to be unpacked by her.

* * *

The thick, heavy blanket of darkness has settled over the compound as the evening wears on, shards of rain beating against the glass and steel that is Capsule Corporation, as if it is trying to break down the stronghold that keeps the Briefs family safe. She sits at the kitchen table, observing the streams of water trickling down the front of the window, listening to the comforting rhythm of the rain.

She has been feeling out of sorts as of late, unable to move forward with the threat of death lingering at the back of her mind. As though her life is perpetually on hold. She is unsure what she can do to prevent the invasion, the devastation. Her stroke of brilliance shot down by the others in their overwhelming need to prove themselves, their lack of truly understanding the significance behind potential failure. Her fists begin to clench with slight anger, angry at their selfishness, their pride, how they can begin to think that losing against a worthy opponent is worth the lives of millions. She slams her fist down on the table, muttering softly, unaware of the man that is watching her.

"Talking to yourself onna?" She looks up, startled to see him leaning against the archway of the room, dripping wet from the onslaught of the rain. Her gaze is momentarily distracted by the droplets of water falling off of his body, pooling at his feet, the way his shorts cling desperately to his skin. A faint blush stains her cheeks when she realises she has been staring.

"Are you here for dinner?" She avoids his question. He does not expect an answer, and she knows she is not required to give one. She wonders whether he is attempting to engage with conversation, or trying to bait her, a form of entertainment she has come to learn that he sometimes participates in with her companions, though very rarely with herself and her family. He does not answer her inquiry, but instead turns and disappears down the hallway. She takes his silence as a yes. This is common, their lack of dialogue. Something she has grown accustomed to. The man who keeps to himself, never giving himself away.


	2. Silent Reverie

**Silent Reverie**

Her eyes ache from exhaustion, from the blinding glare of artificial lighting, strained from staring at the mess of blue and grey that are her blueprints. Time has no meaning in this place, a void of stillness as she toils endlessly on new projects, slaving away at fixing old ones. Hours lost within the ambiguity of metal and machinery, paper and chalk. The lab has always been both a place of refuge and of torment. A place she is both comforted by and terrified of. A place that simultaneously wraps its warm, familiarity around her while strangling her with the stresses and burdens of scientific advancement and competitive achievement.

In the past she had been reliant on the intercom to break the suction of absent time that the lab manifests, her mother reminding her to take breaks, to join them for dinner, to go to school, to go to bed. There had been times when her mother had been away, where Bulma as a young adolescent spent days locked away in the lab, unbeknownst to her father, a man whose working habits parallel her own. But now that her parents were absent, she had been left to her own devices. She has fallen back into the temptation of spending long hours, labouring on projects and ideas, the result of avoiding loneliness and desperate attempts for human contact. Ignoring the uneasy feeling sitting in the pit of her stomach, of knowing that an uncertain and potentially perilous future awaits her.

The swoosh of the automatic door startles her from her reverie, and the overwhelming demeanour that he emits is quickly discernible. She glances at her watch, taking note of the time and day that has escaped from her again. She comes to grasp that she has missed three or four mealtimes where her presence is generally warranted. She braces herself for a barrage of complaints and demands that often accompanies his hostile visits to her sanctuary and turns to face him.

She is startled to see a large tray of food balanced in his right hand. He walks over to her, grabbing a plate from the tray and roughly placing it down on the only spare patch of the worn workbench, nestled between broken parts and sprawled notes, the clatter of porcelain hitting steel echoing through the quiet room. A thank-you forms on her lips, but soon dies as he turns away to scan the room, searching for something. She distinguishes another plate of food on the tray, the soft wisps of steam vanishing as they rise towards the ceiling and she is struck by an astonishing realisation. He has brought his meal with him and is looking for a place to sit and eat, a difficult feat within the cluttered confines of her lab.

She watches him, intrigued by his presence, the temptation to offer him solutions held on the tip of her tongue. She is curious as to what he will do, how he will solve his dilemma and so stays silent, the researcher's interest peaked. Every table in her lab covered with piles of objects and parts of machinery, stacks of paper and drafts of blueprints spread across to each corner. Not a spare space in sight.

She is surprised by his reserve; certain he would push her projects aside to set the food down. But he is uncharacteristically considerate as he surveys the room, the cogs working in his head as he balances the tray of steaming food in one hand. A small smirk of triumphant graces his chiselled face, a solution has come to him. She observes him as he strides over to a shelf filled with prototypes of capsule technology and pulls a small one from the glass enclosure, examining the label. Throwing it to the ground; out pops a small table, squeezed between the benches of her workspace and he places the tray down. She is wonderfully surprised at his initiative, his ability to think through the situation. The strange demonstration of respect for her private and sacred space. She wonders what experiences he has had regarding laboratories, outside his past brief intrusions that would demand her resources and time. She ponders as to whether he had previously developed reverence for the work of scientists, or if this was a silent admission of his esteem for her. She is perturbed by the small voice in head that hopes it is the latter.

He does not look her way, but grabs an abandoned stool and sits down, beginning to eat his meal, his profile in view. She watches him for a moment longer, trying to determine his reason for being here, expecting demands on her time. Instead he stays silent, focused on his food. She realises that his presence is nothing more than to keep her company. In this moment, she appreciates how completely alone he must feel, how he must need those meal times that often balanced between forced conversation and awkward silence. She begins to comprehend how she has assumed he needed complete solitude, how she has not come to understand the necessity that is companionship for him, even if silent and brief.

She chooses not to break the strange aura of comfort that has settled within the room. Instead, she raises a fork of food to her mouth as an acknowledgement of his rare generosity, vowing to make more of an effort in keeping meal times. And out of the corner of her eye, she can see the hint of a smile grace the corner of his mouth.


	3. Observations

**Author's Note: **_I'm not one for Yamcha bashing. And while we know that he was 'fickle' or cheated (depending on the translation) during the Mirai timeline, I'm not convinced that he did this during the main timeline. This is because during Mirai timeline, they were not training for an immediate threat, life was not put 'on hold' as it were, so I could see him growing bored, frustrated and straying. But in the main timeline, he goes on a training journey, and while we know that he and Bulma did break up, the circumstances surrounding this are quite vague, and he is quite resentful when they first meet up with the androids that she has had another man's child, though whether this is because it is Vegeta (would Yamcha be just as resentful if it was someone else?) or if it is because he still has feelings for her, or a combination of factors, I am not sure...Just some thoughts :) _

**Observations**

The soft glow of the television fills the space, aided by a solitary side lamp, illuminating the worn pages of her notebook as she scribbles thoughts and ideas. Sometimes irrelevant equations litter the sheets, a habit of hers as a form of relaxation, something she finds comfort in, the notion of black and white, right and wrong answers. She enjoys the white noise of the television, vaguely aware of the plot and content. Rather, it provides her a strange form of company, makes her feel less alone. In this peace and solitude, she allows her mind to wander over the possibilities of a desolate future as she mindlessly balances chemistry equations. Whether she has made the right choice in breaking things off with her first love, the essence of him still deep within her skin.

She knows deep down that she did, that the lonely desert bandit was no longer the outsider that she needed, the two of them against the world. When everything was fresh and new, he was what she was looking for, someone who didn't fit in, someone who understood her loneliness. But he had come into his own, leaving her to linger alongside the outskirts of life, only really able to look in. She knows that this was not his intention, that he still loves her. She knows that their separation was inevitable, that her holding on was the result of her fear of being alone again.

She is deep within the recess of her mind when she is startled by change of aura in the room. Such a powerful presence, he emanates, overwhelmingly so. She can tell he is here without shifting her gaze from her tired notebook. But she does so, observing him surveying the television, half hidden in the shadows. He is intrigued by the images, only his eyes giving him away as he maintains his predictable posture, squared shoulders, rigid back and arms crossed in front of his chest. The stance of a man who has no interest in letting someone in. They stay like that for a few minutes, her watching him intently while he appears immersed in the television program. She wonders whether he is waiting for an invitation to join her, and begins to feel sheepish for not having offered him a seat.

"Vegeta, you are welcome to join me if you'd like." She gestures towards the empty space on the couch between herself and the opposing armrest. "You can change the channel, I'm not really watching anything…" She picks up the remote and offers it to him. He eyes her suspiciously, but proceeds to sit down cautiously, not allowing his weight to sink fully into the comfort of the plush sofa. The space between them is large, he has chosen to sit as far away as possible from her. She tries not to be offended or insulted by this, she feels appreciative enough that he has even sat down and not ignored her in his usual way. Desperate for some form of company, even if it is his. She hands him the remote, the tips of her fingers brushing his as he snatches it from her grasp. A scowl has formed on his face and she bites her lip, realising that he must have been repulsed by the touch of her. She shakes the feeling of rejection, as minute as it was and turns her attention back to her notebook.

Throughout the remainder of the evening, she notices him relax into the couch, the scowl softening as he observes the television screen. She is thankful for the audio track, filling in for the lack of conversation. They stay like this for a few hours, him intently watching the screen, her absentmindedly doodling in her notebook. As the time grows late, her eyelids begin to feel heavy, the softness of the couch trying to lure her into dreamland.

Without warning, he stands, the abrupt motion shocking her out of her doze. He departs the room brusquely, leaving her alone in the confines of the night.

* * *

This became a pattern, since her resolve to begin eating evening meals and make the effort to spend a little more time with him. They would sit in silence, her picking at her food, him devouring his plate with such fervour that she wondered if he was perpetually starving. When meals were cleared away, he would disappear for a time, and she would settle down in the lounge. While initially she had been tempted to return to the lab to continue working, she found she needed the peace and relaxation that this little activity gave her. He began joining her, sitting in his same spot, watching various programs.

At first he maintained his guarded posture, tense, unwilling to let himself become fully immersed by the entertainment, adverse to allowing himself to become comfortable and relaxed. As the days turned into nights, he gradually began to unwind in her presence, slowly sinking back into the couch, as though he realised she was not a threat to him. Though what kind of menace she possessed, she could not ascertain. Little to no conversation would be had during these times, continuing their pattern of muteness from dinner.

So when he made a statement about her personality one night during their quiet meals, she almost missed it as her mind wandered while pushing food around her plate.

"Onna." She looks up, startled to find his piercing gaze on her. She clears her throat.

"Sorry Vegeta I was…lost in thought. What did you say?" He seems perturbed that she had asked him to repeat himself.

"You are not the same." She couldn't comprehend his statement. _Not the same? Not the same as compared to what?_

"I'm sorry I don't understand what you are talking about." He breaks his gaze to focus once more on his food.

"When I first met you, you were an irritating, infuriating, screeching harpy." She grips her fork tighter, a scathing retort threatening to burst out.

"And now?" He looks almost thoughtful, but she can hear the condescending tone in his voice.

"And now you are quiet." She is taken aback by his admission. When he first arrived, their screaming matches were almost of legend. But as of late she had chosen to avoid confrontation, she needed an audience for her extroverted persona, she did not feel the need to perform around the one person she felt no attachment to, or wanted attachment to.

"So?" She is curious as to why he made such a proclamation. But he does not respond and focuses instead on his meal. She is left to ponder the meaning behind his statement, and comes to realise that without the presence of her companions, she has lost the guise she has spent years crafting and moulding as a desperate attempt to connect with the world. Around this stranger, hands stained with death and hatred, a perpetual outsider to this life, she has inevitably let her guard down.


	4. Speculation

**Author's Note EDIT: **_While I respect constructive criticism and commentary as it is the best way to improve one's writing, I have noticed that some individuals who remain anonymous have been posting nasty reviews regarding my intelligence, not just on this particular fic but on others as well. It seems that there are trolls in the midst of the fanfiction world who feel the need to make others feel bad. It is cowardly to leave an anonymous review of such offensive proportions. I feel for those who are new writers who have received your treatment. In light of this, all reviews will now be moderated and abuse will be be reported. This is a shame, as I prefer to not moderate reviews. I am more than happy to receive critiques in the form of constructive feedback, but abuse will not be tolerated. All nasty reviews are deleted. I want to again thank all of you who have left positive reviews and reviews that help me learn from my errors. Your words are appreciated. _

**Author's Note Original: **_Thank you for the follows and reviews. __ Apologies for delays, it can be difficult to get chapters out admist all the other work I have to do. Please enjoy._

**Speculation**

She is in the gravity room, kneeling beside the panel of the control pad, the sweat pouring off her body as she works tirelessly to repair the frayed wires and broken circuitry. As frustrated as she is at her house-guest's apparent lack of respect for the machine her father has created, she knows that it is not entirely his fault. The parts they have used cannot withstand the brute force of his power, and she knows that more testing should have occurred when her father updated the machine to ensure its durability.

Normally when she completes upgrades he will disappear somewhere else to train. But today he watches, observing what she does. She's not sure whether she should be pleased that he's taken an interested, or irritated at what might feel as being micromanaged. She is unaware of what his capacity is for understanding the work of engineers, and is beginning to feel self-conscious beneath the heat of his intense gaze.

"I haven't seen the baka around." His statement leaves her befuddled, both for breaking the silence and for the nature of his remark. She had not expected him to take notice of such things. She had assumed that he would view Yamcha's presence in her life as trivial, not worth his attention.

"No, he's gone off to train." She replies, wiping the sweat from her forehead, her bangs damp from the moisture and sticking to her face.

"You didn't build him a room for such things?" He asks, his voice laced with arrogance.

"He never asked." She answers simply, keeping her focus on the task at hand.

"I would have thought that you would have done so without him asking." The implication is there, he is aware of her strange romantic status with the bandit. The level of intimacy that this conversation requires is starting to unnerve her. She has not experienced such depth or length before from this man.

"No. We're not together." A hint of sadness in her words, but she waves it away. She does not need this man's pity. Silence permeates the room again as she continues to work. She pulls back for a moment to take a break, and is surprised by the quick offer of a water bottle held in his hand. She takes it, pressing the chilled bottle against her neck. When she glances up to thank him, his eyes are on her, watching her every move, and she feels a deep blush creep up her face. She wonders what it would be like to have that gaze on her in a different situation. She shakes her head, avoiding eye contact and taking a swig of the cool water.

"He will be isolated." He muses, shifting his gaze from her to focus on some unknown object or entity that she cannot see. She is not sure whether he is trying to make her feel better, or reaffirming his superiority. She ponders if either case is to make him more appealing to her, and mentally scolds herself for such a thought.

"He has plenty of fans…" The bitterness in her tone of speech is not missed. Her former lover was an attractive man, this she understood. Plenty of girls would flock to him while she stood ignored on the sidelines. She always struggled to maintain a man's attention, and she knows deep down that it is not necessarily the fault of her own, but the society in which she resides in. She discerns that she is not following her appropriate script for her gender role, that her outward displays of confidence and intellect challenge the convention of being subservient, sweet and pretty. She recognises that a number of men are not at fault either, consistently told that the woman they should desire must adhere to that neat little box of qualities and traits. That they themselves face endless difficulties in reconciling impossible and often contradictory ideals of masculinity and manhood.

She tries not to let this get to her, knowing that it is the process of socialisation that has structured her world in such a way. But it leaves her feeling lonely; her attempts at trying to become what she is told men want often failing her. She is lacking the beauty and grace that is the essence of her mother.

She snaps the last wire back into place, refitting the side panel and packs up her tools. She is about to lift herself off of the ground when she notices a hand reach out to help her up. Tentatively, she grasps it and he effortlessly pulls her to her feet. For a moment their gazes lock, and she is acutely aware of the warmth in the room, the strength of his grip, the closeness of their bodies and the electricity in their touch. His thumb brushes her wrist, and there is a flash of something across his face before he lets go, causing her to stumble, her balance off from the heat and exertion. He turns his back to her and walks over to the control panel. Her dismissal so he can train. She bends down to grab her bag and leaves the room, the door shutting behind her.

In the hot air outside, she turns and stares at the gravity chamber. She knows she saw something in his face, but cannot ascertain its meaning. She is befuddled by the strange gestures of help, the odd conversation. The ghost of his imprint on her hand remains, reminding her of the way he looked at her, the tension between their almost touching bodies. She questions if he turned his back abruptly so she could not view his face, if there is something he does not wish for her to see. She wonders if there is something inevitable in the manner in which they are slowly becoming closer.


End file.
